Pier Pressure Ch. 03

This is the third and final part.

Pier Pressure Part III

Late Fall, Icy Winter

This story is obviously a continuation. However, there will be enough background in the first chapters to be read independently.

I'm Janey Woodhall. I was a faithful wife for over twenty five years. But twice this Fall, I fell. I have had exciting extramarital sex with my taker, Jimmy Leary. I do not call him my lover, because we have sex, but do not make love. Jimmy has many good qualities. He is entertaining. He is competent in his job as a security manager, and therefore has disposable cash that he is willing to spend. He has spent it in making his lake house an emporium of sexual pleasure. Other qualities include the fact that to him, I am one of several wanton women. Wanton meaning a piece of meat in an easily removable wrap. If I was Italian and he was Yankee Doodle, he would call me ravioli. A good quality is that while I know he has other women, he would never tell me who. Nor would he brag about having me.

In spite of my obvious betrayal, I love my husband, Bob. He is a independent consultant, who returns formerly successful businesses to profitability. Unfortunately he needs to be on the road a lot to observe his clients' operations. This leaves me occasionally alone at the lake house, and lately available prey. Professionally, I am a chemistry teacher at a local high school.

I came from my last tryst with Jimmy with a problem. I missed my period. I hoped it was early menopause. When Bob had a consultation in St. Louis, I peed on the stick. I was pregnant. The story I had for Bob was obvious. I hadn't used the diaphragm for a while and must've put it in wrong. My only fear was that at some point a DNA test would be needed. Both the story and fear were unnecessary. My 49 year old body could not carry a baby. I had a miscarriage. I made sure my gynecologist disposed of the fetus, and that tying my tubes was added to the clean up procedure. I told neither Bob or Jimmy about the pregnancy.

Bob's current consultation is however close to home at the Mall of America. Unfortunately the business's problem involves loss of weekend sales. So he will be working all weekend, and I am again alone at the lake house. We are having Thanksgiving dinner there next week with the kids, so I am making preparations. Saturday morning, no surprise, Jimmy Leary is here with two bottles of his inexhaustible supply of Sancerre. I put them in the fridge. I have given up on virtue.

"Jimmy, let's go over to your place. We both know what is going to happen, so we will do it at a place built for it."

Jimmy pampered me in his bath and in his bed. While the sex was still extremely competent, even with some unexpected touches, the thrill was decreasing. Perhaps, with familiarity, it no longer felt forbidden. I left early for my own house. I was shocked to see Bob sitting on the patio.

"I saw something to try at the mall. There was nothing for me to do until we tested it, so I came here for the weekend. When I realized you were spending the night elsewhere, I finished your Sancerre, and was out like a light. I would ask you where you were, but I was on the patio drinking coffee and trying to remember who I was and where I was. I saw you leaving Jimmy's house. I also saw how he touched you."

"I am so sorry."

"Sorry you betrayed me and our marriage, or sorry I caught you."

"Of course, I am sorry I got caught, but I am even more sorry that I am not the wife you deserve. I am most sorry that I am not the person for you that I want to be."

"Get ready to leave. We are not spending one minute longer here than necessary."

We came in two cars, so I drove home alone. It was a relief not to have to face Bob. The relief ended in an hour and a half when we reached home.

"Get what you need out of our bedroom. You cheated, you move. Find whatever room you want to sleep in. I will let you know if you can move back."

I heard clearly that it wasn't, "when you can move back." The first change was that Thanksgiving was going to be in St. Paul. I was shocked when on Tuesday he gave me an envelope from our lawyer and said, "Sign." I started crying, but stopped when it was permission to sell the lake house. I signed without challenge. I knew that I had a lot of groveling ahead.

It was a cold winter. Bob and I would only talk to take care of the necessities. We had a lot of silent meals. I missed having a life's companion. Finally the silence broke.

"I am looking at your betrayal in a different way. Our marriage is not unlike my specialty. I deal with formerly successful institutions in difficulty. Give me a week and I'll settle this."

I was thrilled that the silence was ending, and we would have a conclusion. I feared what it would be. Bob placed our meeting at our dining room table on Sunday afternoon.

"I've looked at the numbers. We've been together for more than 100 seasons. You only cheated in one. That's better than a 99% success rate. If I find a new woman, can I beat it?There is a fifty percent divorce rate. I am better off with you and it's not close. However, we made vows that demand perfection. I will not be a cuckold. Our marriage is over."

"What are you saying? It's contradictory."

"I want to stay together. But we will divorce. You have lost the title of wife. Do you prefer the archaic Mistress or Slut."

I had a thought I couldn't resist, even if it cost me.

"Slut is such a nasty word. Can I be your whore?"

His jaw only dropped for a second.

"Cute, nice try. I'm not paying you. But that you would figure out a way to profit from this is entertaining. It's a good sign for our establishment."

I agreed to his terms. Since we were working together, the attorney fees were cheaper. We were divorced in six months. The day our divorce became final, Bob invited me back to our bedroom.

Funny thing, the sex now has had a forbidden quality. The sex is actually better. The love making is worse. In the back of his mind is the remembrance of betrayal. We have a good life. Did my Fall fall kill a better one?

We celebrate our wedding anniversary each year at the best French restaurant in Minneapolis. We celebrate our divorce each year at the best Italian restaurant in St. Paul. Bob says that it is to remind me that divorce Italian style is still an option.